Trailer Family Tribulations
by Quillon42
Summary: Simply enough, what went down for the famous fam, as well as for the "Immune" in the hours just before the Kuru Outbreak. (Note: I played through as Logan Carter, which is why I did the "looseleaf" thing with him in particular).


TRAILER FAMILY TRIBULATIONS

By Quillon 42

I really don't see what would have been wrong with Knott's Berry Farm.

We would have had a nice, relaxing, family time. I mean, there would have been the rides, yeah, but it would have been educational, too, and enriching for all of us.

At least more educational than this "Hoodoo" stuff that was blasting downstairs hours ago.

Yep…this was a really great idea, "Daddy," to bring us all out here, on the other side of the planet, to basically what was the most down and out, sleaziest resort around. Real family getaway.

I held the kitchen knife tighter to my chest as I thought about my man some more. I looked across the room at him now, watched him sort out some toiletries in our suitcase.

I wonder if he too saw the help, that little burgundy-clad bastard, that pencil-necked pissant, as he peeped in on us before. Even if we had a Do Not Disturb set up on the knob, that weaselly worm would probably have helped himself to an eyeful. It's depressing when even the bellboys are trash.

But overall, I honestly feel better now, to be more removed from the scene, honestly, to be away from the beaches and the bungalows. Even though we are overlooking what's basically the Cesspool of Southeast Asia…(I wanted Kuala Lumpur, or Seoul, myself), I've got the best view, way up here, away from all the rabble (ca)rousers. It's _a_rousing to me now, to look out and view the panorama, then to look over at my husband's still-tight ass, after these few years.

The fact that our little baby was probably going to be at least another few minutes before coming back up…in the mood I was in now, was enough to make me want to have my husband repair, or even upgrade, his tool on my workbench. Just a little tryst. He was a pipefitter at home; when he'd settle in with me, he'd…work the night shift, so to speak. Ever so dexterous when he went to his work.

You know, though: I wouldn't entirely mind it if my little one came back here, on the triple. Those seedy slimeballs she could meet downstairs, even just by the balcony…

"Mommy!" she said to me, when we were all on the dance floor, a couple of hours back, "Mommy! I met this really nice girl and she told me she's gonna hand me down her old dungarees!"

"Now, Baby, you don't go and ask for other people's clothes…"

"No, it's okay, Mommy! She said she couldn't use 'em anymore anyway! They'd just clutter up her and her dad's garage! She's really cool; said her name was Gin, or something. Real nice, but her hair's in a muppet."

I couldn't help but rear my head back and chuckle at that. My little one heard me and her daddy go on about mullets once, and my daughter came in and almost burst into tears of laughter over the pictures we were looking at online. This was when my guy was looking for new hairstyles…can't say he went right by doing the whole spiky-maned thing in the end. Christ.

It was a bad styling, like that guy downstairs, whom my husband said was a pro ball player once. He went the way of Michael Vick, though, with the illegal underground stuff he did. Cost the life of more than some dog, too, or so I heard. So he got what he deserved, physically and careerwise.

I almost felt sorry for him, anyway, though. Walking around with that piece of pad paper constantly, the sheet dictating to him regarding certain choices. I overheard that rough-edged Aussie bodyguard lady talking to him, real snidely-like:

"You gonna gather up all those bottles of brandy you topped off, or am I gonna have to break 'em all over your roostery-ass hairdo?"

The fallen footballer looked to his looseleaf, then lowered it, faced his conversant.

"Yes…"

The mean-looking woman then backed off at that, though barely satisfied.

Pitiful guy must have suffered some sort of brain damage in his infamous incident.

Near to the disgraced, seemingly disabled jock were a couple of others looking charitably to clean up the man's mess. Among them was a very svelte-looking Asian lady in what looked like a flight attendant uniform, with the red skirt and white blouse. When I approached, though, I could tell she was personnel for the "Ho-Del," as that Tyson-tattooed yet auric-hearted individual pronounced it, a gentle man whom I met about twenty minutes before.

"We must…save all of the poor little bottles!" she was chiding to others nearby, as the girl gathered all of the scattered containers up. She was beautiful; I imagine that she could turn more heads with her work togs on than most of these equine-countenanced ladies around here who were gallivanting around wearing barely anything.

A second later, the Asian woman, to herself: "To have been relegated to this… government assignment…at first it did not sit well with me. But I have found that I find peace in replacing understandable disgruntlement with saccharinely unrealistic quanta of compassion!"

"Here, I'll help," I said, hunching down alongside the girl to grasp at a forty the fauxhawk flung away. Tyson Tattoo sauntered on over to lend a hand as well.

"Oh, thank you! Your assistance is immeasurably appreciated, really!" the svelte girl said to me.

"It's nothing."

And then I told her my name.

"It is wonderful to make your acquaintance!" she told me, effusively. "I'm Xian Mei."

"That's a very pretty name, Xian Mei."

"Thank you! It means 'Mary Sue' in Mandarin."

I reflected, in the en(mary)suing minutes, about how she didn't really look very Chinese, she sounded like it from her handle. I would have pegged her as a chick from Bangkok, honestly, with her somewhat darker complexion.

Sitting up here now, this knife still uselessly in my hand, I think about my man, on the other side of the club, talking to her. That blonde whore, who came only in a white swimsuit, as if her whole image couldn't be any more bleached. He was there, my husband, chatting her up while I was on my hands and knees with John Sinamoi and Xian Sino-Thai!

And of all the bullshit…just as I'm getting back onto my feet, I see him…_high-fiving_ the girl. That was the only contact he made with her—although I wasn't facing him the entire time while I was DIRTYING MYSELF ON THE GROUND to pick up after another idiotic ape—but that was enough to just set me off. I marched up to him and ordered him upstairs. I'm sorry, but I'm just a very jealous type. That image of his palm slapping hers in midair, it just stayed with me.

But the worst of it all so far, though, was that performer who was center stage. I mean, don't get me wrong; he seems very talented, and I've heard he is a real gentleman, with the press and with fans. But the _mouth_ on him.

"There's gonna be a concert this evening, Mommy!" my little baby cried, earlier. "Someone named…Sambee or something! I met him downstairs, and he gave me his photograph!"

"Photograph?!"

"You know, like, he signed his name on some duck tape and gave it to me. He just grabbed it among all this barbed wire and lemon juice that was lying around for absolutely no reason!"

"Mmm…so you got his autograph, you mean. I see."

A pause.

"Mommy, what's 'fuck'?"

And this was why, even though we came downstairs after Sam B gave his show, I hurried my family back up to our room after just a short while on the dance floor. I didn't need my daughter learning maritime dialect at effing seven, from anyone—nor did I require my husband to snag a milky-ass swimsuit-and-chlamydia-clad mistress.

I'm telling you: Knott's Berry Fucking Farm.

My little one kept bothering me, though, as the sun was frigging coming up already several minutes back, to go out again. Not all the way downstairs, just a floor or two down because there's a balcony on the other side of the place from which she wants to a get a different vantage.

Well, it's alright because I know that pudgy yet pleasant man is there, so she should be safe.

You see, my man and I, we were getting our luggage together outside the "Ho-Del," and the goof that he is, my husband completely tripped over a handbag lying by the curb. This caused a number of other small containers to tumble down on top of him, all of them raining out random-ass sundry items and random-odd dollar amounts. While other, scumbag patrons were scooping up seventy-three bucks from one bag, a hundred sixteen from another, just one person—this middle-aged-looking pudgy, pleasant fellow, with a yellow Hawaiian shirt on—he was kind enough to ask if my guy was alright, and he helped us all with our stuff. Even assisted us taking the baggage up to our rooms and everything.

Nearby, I remember too, that fucked-in-the-head fauxhawk was checking out the pissed-off purple-bedecked bodyguard.

"You wanna stop giving me the eye like that, fuckjob?"

Then the football failure took out his piece of paper. A second later:

"Sure, I'll give it a shot."

And "Sambee" was commenting on the state of the strewn luggage all around.

(_The following statement shall substitute "Sister Helen" for an oft-used term utilized by Sam B, which, put another way, connotes "maternal intercourse"_):

"I've Sister Helening had Sister Helen it Sister Helen with Sister Helen this Sister Helen resort Sister Helen already Sister Helen so Sister Helen someone Sister Helen tell Sister Helen me Sister Helen when Sister Helen we Sister Helen gonna Sister Helen be Sister Helen done Sister Helen here."

A few feet away, Xian Mei gasped, and endeavored futilely to cover her hands over some flowers nearby, she trying in vain to protect their virgin ears even though plants don't have aural capacities. "Oh, but you know they grow better, with good music, for example," she would explain to the the rapper later, when unfortunately-stereotypically-foulmouthedly questioned about it. _Not that your brand of sound really does anything for them,_ she would think to herself furtively.

"If you will excuse me now, Samuel B, I must go practice my martial arts, as everyone in my race, according to the Deepest of Silver, is required to do." And then Xian bowed honorably and left.

Anyway, as Yellow Hawaiian Shirt was leaving our room, he made small talk with us. Said he was a gun auctioner, hunter on the side. Had a hobby as well in collecting and selling all sorts of blades. Almost like some kind of busman's holiday door-to-door salesman, he gave me a knife as a parting gift, even though he was the one who did us a favor. I mean, we totally should have gone into one of our suitcases and given him three hundred twenty-nine dollars for service better than the pervert bellhop.

But yeah, he's the one responsible for my unnecessarily-armed status at the moment. Why the hell else would I have a freaking butcher knife in my hands right now?

It's not like this place is…deadly, really. Sleazy up the ass, yeah, but nothing life-threatening.

I liked him, though, the Yellow Shirt. He came off as Good People. In this day and age, it's really hard to find that. Especially in a frigging place like this, to boot.

It just occurred to me, though…this was the first time I've let my baby off on her own. Ah, well.

She'll be alright. I trust her judgment, or what passes for it, at her age. My little girl's so friendly, I bet she went and found some small tyke counterparts to good people, and she's even bringing them back upstairs to show them the view up here.

Oh! That was the elevator bell dinging just now; must be her. I should really put this knife down, you know? Don't want to scare to any of the little ones she's bringing along. They'll be here any second, after all.


End file.
